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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997719">Higher and Lower</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile'>chelonianmobile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aren't Tentacles Fun?, Bulges and Nooks (Homestuck), Canon Disabled Character, Double Penetration in One Hole, Enthusiastic Consent, Handcuffs, Hemospectrum Kink, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexual Roleplay, Wheelchairs, between only two people</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-20 22:26:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,078</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25997719</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Request: "sex/kink in the wheelchair! or other sex/kink that's adapted for Tavros's disability. bloodplay, handcuffs, bondage, bdsm, also a chance to pull out your favorite kink as long as it follows the DNW."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gamzee Makara/Tavros Nitram</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Drone Season 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Higher and Lower</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereus/gifts">cereus</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi there, giftee! I really hope you like this. The idea was sweet and I think this kink's a good fit for them. Went with Tav still having genital function for fairly obvious reasons. I couldn't resist a brief mention of my pale crack OTP - it's just one paragraph at the start, shouldn't take away from the main point. Been a long time since I wrote either smut or Homestuck character dialogue, but I don't think I'm too out of practice. I also liked your carapace culture prompt but couldn't really think of anything to do with it in time, I'd be willing to take that up for the Sloppy Seconds collection if we can chat after the reveals?</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Sure you can, Tavbro,” is rapidly becoming your favourite sentence.</p><p>
  <i>I, uhh, don’t think I can say that, to Vriska…</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I’m, um, not sure I’m strong enough to wheel myself around, in the chair, all day, without being pushed…</i>
</p><p>
  <i>I don’t know if, well, we can, actually, um, fill a pail, with my legs like this…</i>
</p><p>And every time, he turns on that lazy smile, and says “Sure you can, Tavbro. We just gotta figure out how.” And usually he’s right.</p><p>(Maybe it borders on pale, but then, from Eridan you always get an affronted “Wwhy not?” instead, as if he’s offended at you on your own behalf. Probably better for your self-esteem in the long run, being challenged to work it out yourself, and gaining the confidence to point out to him when he’s being stuck-up again. But he’s not here right now, and you don’t want to be in a pale mood today.)</p><p>Gamzee’s sprawled comfortably on the floor at the foot of your wheelchair, idly lifting and dropping the bucket handle and listening to it clatter against the side, still awaiting an answer. You shake out of your musings, and clear your throat, and say “Well, um, I’m sure you’re right, and there is a way, but I don’t, really, well, see it.” With one hand you pat your immobile and withered thigh. “Every time you, uhh, get on top of me, you, well, use your legs.”</p><p>“Why’s a motherfucker think he gotta be on top?” Gamzee says, and blows a lock of his floppy hair out of his eye. “I said take charge, Tavbro, a motherfucker can do that from below.”</p><p>“That is, I suppose, possible,” you concede. “But still… does it, um, defeat the purpose, if you tell me how you want it done? You are, um, better at, uhh, thinking outside the, hypothetical, box, than I am. And, I guess, once I know what you mean, I could, um, do it myself, well, not <i>myself,</i> but, with you, under my own initiative, another time? Sorry if I’m not, um, making sense.”</p><p>Gamzee’s Faygo-stained grin gets wider, bright as moonlight, sappy enough you can hear Vriska’s sneering in your mind (and you welcome it because that affection’s all for you). “Nah, I be gettin’ you, brother. You wantin’ me to get my teach on? I can get to doin’ that.” He nuzzles your calf, and it’s sweet even though you can’t feel it.</p><p>“Well, then, uhh…” You clear your throat, and think of Equius. Then try not to think of Equius. Awkward. But the general gist… “Then, um, I <i>order</i> you to show me what I should do… please? Is that an okay start?”</p><p>Giggles, and more butting against your leg. “More’n okay. Lemme think, though.”</p><p>“Well, we both want this to go well, so, okay, I order you to think, very carefully, about how you want to do this, then?”</p><p>“Already have done,” Gamzee says wistfully, running fingers up your calf, “long and long, my flush brother.” He’s silent for a moment, lips pursed in thought, then pushes himself up, long limbs straightening into place like someone’s lifting the strings of a marionette, and stands, hands on hips, head tilted, looking at your four-wheel device. “Room for one more in that miracle chair?”</p><p>“You know there is, um, as you have sat on my lap, in the chair, before.” You see what he means. Your legs and hips are skinny from lack of use, and Gamzee’s are just skinny anyway; the chair’s not huge but there’s still room for him to get between your legs or straddle you as he pleases.</p><p>Gamzee reaches out to the side, there’s a flash of colour from his Miracle Modus, and he’s holding two pairs of handcuffs, teal enamel on the outer edges. You raise an eyebrow, and he says “Ah, we’ll up and have ‘em put back before our sweet scale-sister notices they’re gone. She and Karbro use ‘em for worse, right?” You giggle, and he grins. “So, is my fine-ass flush-brother thinkin’ these’ll work? Hold me down on top a’ you instead of under?”</p><p>You must be blushing now, your face is hot. You run your hands over the arms of the four-wheel device. “Oh. Oh, yes. Yes, I’m thinking those will work, very well, indeed.”</p><p>“Read my mind.” Gamzee saunters up, bucket in hand, hips swaying, one foot right in front of the other with each step. He reminds you of what Karkat calls Kanaya’s “fashion-model waddle”, the way she walks to make her skirts sway gracefully, and you giggle again. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he drawls apologetically, eyes cast down to the floor, but a very un-sycophantic grin on his face. “Read my mind, Highblood.”</p><p>That sends a sudden, unexpected jolt right down your spine (past the damaged part, reminding you some nerves are still connected) to your groin. “Um, G-Gamzee?” Gosh, your face must be practically glowing bronze. “Can you, maybe, call me that, again? A lot?” His smirk turns to a sweet, indulgent smile, and he nods. “But, um, why’d you think of it?”</p><p>“‘S what my church be calling the high ranks, though we be all the same blood,” he says, handing over the cuffs and kneeling at your feet, bucket beneath him. “Sign of respect, see. And…” He gestures vaguely, not quite sure what he means. “Your blood’s up and been such a source of the harshwhimsies all your life, maybe you’d wanna pretend it ain’t?”</p><p>“Oh, I see, what you mean,” you muse. “Are we pretending that, um, that I am an, actual, highblood, for example, in your church? Because I’m, uhh, not quite sure how, to do that. Or is it that, in this hypothetical scenario, brown is high and…” You gulp. It was his idea, he is the highblood, he is the one who would be offended, but it’s such a social blasphemy that you’re still hesitant.</p><p>Even Gamzee, not the most observant of trolls, picks up on it and says it for you. “And purple be low?” You nod. “Sounds like the wicked bitchtits, sweetheart. I mean…” His voice drops, a hairsbreadth away from a purr. “Whatever the <i>Highblood</i> be orderin’, it shall be done.”</p><p>“Oh my God.” You don’t really have any other words, but Gamzee will expect some. You swallow, and think, and settle on fumbling with your fly while saying “Then, by order of the Highblood, come here and…” No, that’s not how a highblood would do this, is it? You put your hands on the arms of your chair and say “Come here and, um, undo my pants-” sudden inspiration, “-with, umm, with your teeth.”</p><p>That probably wasn’t the greatest idea, you think, as you hear the ripping noise, but you can’t bring yourself to care all that much. Sewing is a thing you know how to do. Your bulge tip is already emerging, pressing out a wiggling lump in the front of your briefs, bronze staining the seam. Gamzee mouths at the lump, drawing it out further, and returns your groan with a whine. Cloth rustles, and you spot where his hands are.</p><p>“Uh, Gamz- I mean, lowblood.” You try to sound authoritative. It probably isn’t working, but you remind yourself you’re new at it. You’ll get the hang. “I, um, don’t believe I, ever, gave you permission, to, um, do that.” Your face feels boiling hot, but a confident highblood wouldn’t be so coy, would they? “I mean, to, um, masturbate.” You said an embarrassing thing, and the world didn’t end. That helps you relax into the role a bit more. You try to imagine how a highblood - the <i>Grand</i> Highblood, or the Empress, even - would feel and think here, that your four-wheel device is a throne, that you’re not moving not because you can’t but because it’s the lowblood’s job to do the work. “Okay, um, give me your hands. I mean, put your hands in mine, because, well, all of you already belongs to me.” Oh goodness. You’ll have to remember that for next time. He does, and you pin his wrists with your own hands to the arms of your chair. “Now, uh, keep going. I mean, as you were.”</p><p>He does, with a will, pulling the flap of your briefs open to let your embarrassingly fat bulge slink out, or more flop out. Your control over its movement is pretty much gone, like your legs. It wiggles about a bit on its own, but it doesn’t move like Gamzee’s, can’t seek out his cold skin or his mouth. You have to wait for him, but he never keeps you waiting long. His mouth is wet and <i>cold,</i> and as always you retract a little until you adjust. He sucks hard, draws your bulge out to its full extension, and lets it slip down his throat smoothly - to use the cliche, easy as slime pie. He’s good at it, though sloppy and wet, transparent purple stains joining the thicker brown on your clothes as strings of saliva run out of his control. Clown church sword-swallowing practice, what a marvel.</p><p>“Mmf… oh, gosh…” You chew on your lower lip. A dignified highblood wouldn’t make funny noises, would they? Well, Gamzee does, but “dignified” never applied to him. You want so much to bury your hands in that bobbing head of curls, but you don’t want him to move… well, he did hand you <i>two</i> sets of cuffs. Four quick clicks, and he’s secured to the arms of the chair. At first, he doesn’t even notice, so absorbed is he in swallowing down enough bulge to lap at your sheath. (His tongue is long, so he hits that point well before you bottom out, but he keeps going.) When he does notice, as you rub his hornbeds and fluff his frizzy hair, he looks up, but doesn’t pull back, and for once you’re thankful for the limited sensation in your lower half as full feeling plus that look would have made you finish then and there.</p><p>He makes the mistake of trying to speak without moving, and you lose all hope of a facade with your squeak of “Ow! Fangs!” He mumbles an apology, and you recover quickly. “It’s okay, Gamzee, it’s okay… ahem, um, would you stop now? I mean, <i>do</i> stop now. I, the, um, Highblood, command you.”</p><p>He pulls back, lips tight against your bulge, which emerges with a slick <i>pop</i> sound and flops on your thigh. “What the Highblood be orderin’, it shall be done,” he says again, voice rough and husky, and when he shifts you feel the wriggling behind the icy-wet spot on his pants, slimmer but far livelier than yours and just about as long. He tries to move his hands, can’t, the cuffs jingle.</p><p>“Can you, um, can you safely get on top of me, in the chair?” You try not to sound worried enough to break immersion. Still, you don’t want to tip over and crack one of your skulls. He grins and nods, gripping the chair arms. It’ll be a squash, getting his long legs in place around you, but your legs are pretty skinny, though your torso’s stocky. You’ve managed it before, you’re just concerned he won’t be able to to catch himself if he slips with his hands bound… but Gamzee smoothly steps up and crouches over you, and the chair rocks and slides back with his added weight but doesn’t fall, doesn’t even come close. He can be graceful, for someone who tends to move like a marionette when he walks, joints loose and head down. His head’s up now, chin high, well above your head; you reach out and push his shoulder down. “Your head should not, uh, be higher than mine. And stop looking me in the eye.”</p><p>“Yeah, Highblood. Sorry, Highblood.” His voice is quiet now; demure, perhaps you could say. It’s strange to hear from Gamzee, of all people. Not bad, though. He crouches lower, bends, but doesn’t kneel yet; you grab his waistband and slide his damp and tented pants down, and he steps out of them and kicks them backwards onto the floor. Now he can kneel, your hands on his hips keeping him steady over you. When he’s settled into place, you take the opportunity to run your fingers along the insides of his thighs, gathering up the purple there. More than you’ve seen from him at this point in the proceedings, in a while… since your first time, even. It occurs to you to check yours; you can’t feel it on your legs without touching, but your nook and bulge are warm and swollen, and your hand comes away dripping in bronze. Gamzee moans and jerks his hips towards your heat, but doesn’t make any further moves. From his bulge’s thrashing you guess it’s getting painful.</p><p>“Well, um, what are you waiting for?”</p><p>“Highblood’s permission,” he gasps.</p><p>“You have it!”</p><p>He jerks at the cuffs. The chains are too short to reach. “Would do somethin’ if I could!”</p><p>“What? You’re… oh, I see.” His bulge could reach your nook, but that’s not what he’s looking to do now. You have to hold your bulge up with one hand, since your direct control is shot, but that’s easy enough, and both of you cry out as it finally slides into him.</p><p>“Fff-”</p><p>You can’t resist messing with him a little. You flick his nose. “No swearing!” Gamzee blinks at you in surprise. “I know, but if brownbloods were highbloods, then, um, wouldn’t it be reasonable, to assume, that we’d give orders, that were different, from the ones purples give?”</p><p>“Aww, maaaan!” He groans, but he’s laughing, and you hug him. “… You’re jokin’, right?”</p><p>You smirk, and you’re sure you must resemble Vriska a great deal right now. “Nope. See how long you can stick with it.”</p><p>“Ah, you’re killin’ me here, Tav- <i>highblood,”</i> he says quickly. “Buuut… what the highblood be orderin’ shall be done.”</p><p>You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of hearing that.</p><p>Since your bulge can’t move properly on its own anymore, he has to do the work, rolling his hips against you, slowly at first. That’s fine for a minute or so, but you take hold of his waist and pull him down. “Faster?” you say, wishing you sounded less hesitant, and Gamzee obeys, making your wheelchair rock and squeak. You should probably be concerned about the axles, but Gamzee’s pressed up against you, kissing your ear, and that’s about all your mind has room for.</p><p>“F-” he starts to say; you squeeze his thigh to remind him, and he clamps his mouth around your shoulder instead, lips covering his teeth. Wouldn’t do to mark a highblood after all.</p><p>“Good boy, Gamzee,” you murmur, “good boy,” and you think you feel tears. </p><p>He’s moving faster and harder now, outright bouncing on you, and the chair tips and rocks under his weight; you don’t notice quite how much until your horns hit the wall as you roll backwards. It doesn’t put you off, though. Once you’re braced with your back against the wall he can move with more force, and he does, panting, his icy sweat warming as it mingles with your own. He keeps biting you, biting his own lips, stifling his urge to curse up a storm. Because you asked him to. The power, the trust… you wonder if this is how highbloods feel all the time, but you know it isn’t. Gamzee wants to do things for you, because it’s <i>you,</i> not because you can make him, in fact because you can’t make anyone do anything and he still thinks you deserve to get what you want. You love him so much it hurts to look at him. You might be crying too.</p><p>Gamzee starts to whine out a word, and you think he’s going to break the no-swearing instruction, but he’s actually saying “Mmm-<i>more!</i> I-I mean, if the highblood is wantin’… please?”</p><p>“I am,” you assure him. “Hold still…” You reach down. With a male-type nook he can’t take the whole length of your bulge yet; it’s more or less just a blind-ended pocket, not like the much larger vestigial holding pouch of a female troll, from before the days of buckets, and it can stretch inwards somewhat but it takes a lot of practice. Widthwise, though… You take hold of his bulge too and urge it backwards, and it eases into place beside yours, entangling with it and squeezing. The pressure’s giving you a pretty good sensation even with the static in your damaged nerves, though probably not enough to get you to the edge on its own; you know from experience that seeing Gamzee reach that point will.</p><p>Gamzee tugs at the cuffs, rattles them against the chair arms. “Not ‘nough… Permission to try somethin’?”</p><p>“Um, granted…?” You don’t see what he’s doing until you look down, but you definitely feel it; with impressive dexterity, he’s hooked around the end of your bulge with his own, and pulls it down, folding it back in on itself and twining both further together, leaving him stuffed to triple-width. It looks painful. “Gamzee, Gamzee, you don’t have to-!”</p><p>“Want to!” he cries out, voice strained, “I fuckin’ <i>want</i> to, Tav, I do, yeeah,” and he sinks right down to sit on your legs and huddle against your body, and you forget everything about your roleplaying as he starts to come and squeezes down hard enough on you to set you off as well. You left the bucket in the middle of the room when the chair rolled backwards to the wall, and the torrent of purple and bronze from both of you (especially now your bulge tip is pointing downwards and out of Gamzee’s nook) soaks your legs, and the floor, and gums up the front wheels of your chair. You don’t give a damn.</p><p>Gamzee lies limply across your torso, chin on your shoulder, breathing hard right next to your ear. He’s heavy, but you’re fairly strong. You’re happy to not move for a while. His cold flesh is exactly what you need to cool you down.</p><p>“… I swore,” he mumbles, exhaustion in his voice making it hard to tell if he’s joking or apologetic.</p><p>You pet his back. “We’ll let it go this time.”</p><p>You can’t see his face, but he huffs softly and you can tell he’s grinning.</p>
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